"Yes, I am, Barry: Doctor Colligan has said as much; and I should know
it well enough myself, even if he'd never said a word. We're friends
now, are we not?--Everything's forgiven and forgotten, isn't it,
Barry?"

Anty had still hold of her brother's hand, and seemed desirous to keep
it. He sat on the edge of his chair, with his knees tucked in against
the bed, the very picture of discomfort, both of body and mind.

"Oh, of course it is, Anty," said he; "forgive and forget; that was
always my motto. I'm sure I never bore any malice--indeed I never was
so sorry as when you went away, and--"

"Ah, Barry," said Anty; "it was better I went then; may-be it's all
better as it is. When the priest has been with me and given me comfort,
I won't fear to die. But there are other things, Barry, I want to spake
to you about."

"If there's anything I can do, I'm sure I'd do it: if there's anything
at all you wish done.--Would you like to come up to the house again?"

"Oh no, Barry, not for worlds."

"Why, perhaps, just at present, you are too weak to move; only wouldn't
it be more comfortable for you to be in your own house? These people
here are all very well, I dare say, but they must be a great bother to
you, eh?--so interested, you know, in everything they do."

"Ah! Barry, you don't know them."